Whats it all about?

Losing our virginity…it happens to almost all of us, no matter who we are or where we come from. How did it happen for you? Ever wondered what other people think and feel about this never-to-be-repeated experience?
I am on a mission to find out. Follow my journey as I collect stories from as wide a selection of people as possible. From men and women, old and young, gay, straight, Christian, Muslim and Catholic, from the funny and the sad, to the happy and occasionally, the unbelievable. I am in search of the one story that we rarely share. Come and join my adventure.

Contribute your story?

Have you got a story you would like to post? Or an opinion you would like to share? Email me: katemonroe@yahoo.com
Remember to tell me when you were born and what country you come from. All names will be changed to protect identity.

Experience Project

January 26, 2013

The Virginity Project took itself to the flicks this week
to see ‘The Sessions’. Rarely have I felt an audience so rapt in their
attention as the story on the screen unfolded. And yet…it all felt so very
familiar. Here is the reason why. The Sessions is a film about a severely
disabled man who wants to lose his virginity. Without the working arms and legs
that you and I possess, he makes the brave decision to enlist the help of a
sexual surrogate. When I started interviewing people for my book, one thing I
never anticipated was the sheer volume of people I would encounter who had not lost their virginity, for all sorts
of different reasons. But one in particular, ‘Ash’, much like the central
character of ‘The Sessions’, had no choice because his physical disabilities
prevented him from doing so. Eventually, after a lot of soul searching, he
employed the help of a sympathetic sex worker. This story and its result became
a corner stone of my book. When it later became a play, this was the story that
bought the house down.

What part of our able bodied brains believes that
because a person with severe physical disabilities faces such enormous daily
challenges already, that thoughts of
sex disappear out of sight and therefore out of mind? Not only that, but take a minute to think about how it
would feel to get to wherever you’ve got to in life without ever having felt the touch of someone
who loves you. And not because they are related to you i.e. your parents or a
paid carer but just because someone likes you enough to want to make you feel
good….

‘That kiss
was the most intimate moment I’d had in my life up to that point.’

This was my interviewee’s voice when he first encountered
the sex worker who would help him shed his virginity. He wasn’t an innocent 15
year old. He was a man in his 30’s who had never been kissed before.

The Sessions is a great film for so many reasons. I particularly
loved the moment when one of Mark’s many (exquisitely played) carers wheels him
up the hill to his first appointment with ‘the therapist’. Mark is nervous. ‘What
do you think of intercourse?’ he queries his carer. ‘Overrated’ he snaps back. ‘There
are so many different ways to achieve the same result’.

Very true. We are so fixated by the concept of
penetration – your average porn flick has much to answer for – when most
sentient people know that there are 150 different ways to achieve intense
pleasure, none of which involve penetrative sex. In this sexualized world we
live in, its so easy to believe that our lives are not complete unless we are
swinging from the rafters every night whilst jack rabbiting our partners.

Still…try telling that to a person who’s never even
kissed another human being before. The Virginity Project doesn’t like to get
too slushy and sentimental but we felt moved by this film. So did everyone else
in the Coronet the other night. It took us back to what really matters: truth,
genuine intimacy, pleasure. It highlights the work of sensitive people who
devote their lives to making other people’s dreams come true in the most
generous way possible. It’s such a human film. Don’t miss it.

Today’s storyteller has an impediment of his own. As an
aside, I’d like to add that this man’s ‘can do’ attitude to life, under the
most trying of circumstances, is inspirational. I like this guy a lot.

‘I grew up in a very religious house. And I went to
very religious schools. When I started secondary school, someone asked about
sex ed and was told that you would have to do ‘Leaving Cert biology’ to get
that. At no point did we get any kind of sex ed prior to that. I did biology
(for honest reasons!) and the talk could be boiled down to: ‘Sex happens
between married couples. If I find out anyone in this class is sexually active,
I will personally ensure they are expelled.’ That was the entire talk. Nothing
about safety, nothing about pregnancy. If you have sex you will be
punished. That was my sex ed.

Making matters worse, when I was fifteen, I developed
psoriasis, a very unpleasant, genetic but noncontagious skin disorder, which
didn’t help my growing interest in girls and desire to look cool. I learned how
to hide it, by growing my hair long and wearing long sleeves/pants all the
time. I kept trying with different girls, but was incredibly self-conscious and
would often find myself unable to talk to them about anything more than ‘nice
weather, innit?’

When I reached college, having finally freed myself
from the shackles of small town living, I decided that was a whole load of crap
and resolved to get cool clothes, meet some interesting people and try sex for
myself. It was a bit of a shock to learn that I still had no clue about talking
to women. In hindsight, I can see several situations that I could have possibly
turned into something more. Maybe. But I kept trying, trying to break out of
the repressive programming of 19 years. And then I had a minor freak-out in a
club. Under the strobe lighting, the psoriasis on my scalp and upper body stuck
out like day-glo dandruff. And this happened every time I went to a club. I
still had the bars and events and college. While studying for my masters, I
moved into a house and found myself sharing with 7 girls (all with boyfriends).
It was an education and I learned a great deal about women. But always, at the
back of my mind, I kept remembering how bad the psoriasis could get.

Ultimately, I finished college without ever having a
girlfriend. This is despite my friends, frequent trips out and the numerous
societies I took part in. The psoriasis was a constant burden. I learned to
cover up a lot of my problems in college.

After college, I was in search of work, and found
myself in a few strange places, including Africa and Russia. The jobs and
language barrier made it quite difficult to find people my own age. I made some
good friends, don’t get me wrong, but have you ever tried to get home from the
pub at 3 in the morning when you can’t communicate with the taxi driver?

I eventually found employment back home, in the city I
went to college. I knew the streets, I knew all the names, the doormen, I knew
the bands, I was set. My job was hard and time consuming, but worthwhile. I
ventured out several weekends a month, to different gigs or bars. I got a job
with a music magazine, and would often get in for free. I started kick-boxing,
along with volunteering at a soup kitchen twice a week. I was spending my days
working, my nights hanging out with my new friends, and my weekends getting
into gigs for free. It was great.

I was and still – and am generally happy with my lot
in life. Yes, I would sometimes wonder what it was like to hold someone in my
arms as they slept, but I would just remind myself of the numerous good things
in my life and just say it will happen when it happens. I kept myself out there
and did things I enjoyed and believed in. I have few difficulties socially, and
can talk to most people, but when I try for something more, I either fall flat
on my face or miss the cues to act.

After an absolutely hellish week at work, including
seven months of work getting completely wiped, I returned to my flat ready for
a nice long weekend of sleeping, listening to music and watching TV. Instead,
my flat mates had a few friends over and I got talking to a girl, who I’m going
to call Jess.

She was pretty, she was funny, she had similar hobbies
to mine. After a few hours of listening to increasingly bad music, she looked
me right in the eye and said: ‘This is getting a bit much. I bet your room is a
lot quieter.’

As I led her up the stairs, all I could hear was the
theme to Chariots of Fire. She stopped in the bathroom to do whatever arcane
magicks women do to prepare, so I classied up my room a bit. The door opened,
and a beautiful lady in just a bra and shorts entered my room. We haven’t even
kissed yet. She begins to open my shirt, then paused. ‘What… the fuck? She
stepped back, vomited on my bed, and asked ‘What the hell is wrong with you?!’

Psoriasis.

She pulled her top back on and walked out. After
everything, after getting my life sorted, after getting someone who wanted to
be with me because she liked me, and this was how it ended. I didn’t leave my
room for the weekend. I didn’t eat, I just slept and watched porn and slept and
watched porn. She was the last girl I approached. I haven’t tried since then,
about 6 months.

I only ever told one friend of mine about that night.
He recommended I see an escort, and gave me a list of his ‘go-to’ girls.
Talking about escorts and prostitution opens up a whole other can of worms, I’m
not the biggest fan of it, but I’m not going to condemn the ladies involved,
and I can understand why some (not all) people go. He then told me to try the
‘pump and dump.’ Take a guess what that is. If someone, man or woman, wants a
string of one night stands, I got no problem with that. As long as whatever
happens is between consenting adults who use protection, then you can do
whatever.

Trying to bring me around to his way of thinking, he
told me about the ‘unholy abomination’ he woke up beside earlier that week. I’m
sure there are plenty out there, men and women, who can tell similar stories.
Go out, get drunk, go home with someone, cold light of day it’s a Hammer
Horror. I don’t want that. I don’t want to be someone’s funny sex story, and I
don’t want to have one myself. I’m not looking for true love, or waiting until
marriage. I just want someone I care about, and who in turn cares about me. I
want to bake cakes for someone. I want to hold someone in my arms until they
fall asleep. I want to be with someone who wants to be there, not because they
have an obligation or for money.

So that’s me. A 26-year-old genetic abomination who
never kissed a girl.

July 02, 2012

I can’t deny as I walked around the new Yoko Ono exhibit in London this week that I had no idea how much she had accomplished as an artist way before John Lennon came on the scene. ‘Never mind Yoko Ono wrecking the Beatle’s career’, as someone noted recently, ‘the Beatles wrecked Yoko Ono’s career’. But no one mentions that because the Beatles were seen as a more significant force at the time. Which for some reason leads me to an exchange I had recently with a young man that I struggle to present to you.

It’s tricky when you simultaneously feel terrible for a person and totally disagree with their personal politics. I took major umbrage at this man’s use of the word ‘whore’ to describe the female lead in his story. Quite apart from anything else, it’s lazy and unimaginative. This is a word that boys use when they don’t get what they want and stamping their feet and throwing their toys out of their pram via the ‘W' word is the only reasonable course of action. My gut feeling was to point out to him that one day, he may be the father of a daughter, and one day, she may not give a man what he wants and he may call her a whore too. Perhaps that thought might put things in perspective?

Not to mention that the use of this word degrades one of the oldest professions in the world. I have three words for you: supply and demand. If people didn’t require the services of sex workers, they wouldn’t exist. It’s that simple. Deal with your guilt people. But don’t use the ‘W’ word when you can’t. But enough now because alongside my discomfort, I have a lot of sympathy for the man in today’s story. There is no doubt that his female counterpart took his heart, stamped on it and walked away. Even if she didn’t do it intentionally, this is what happened.

Most significantly, I think this is one of those stories that on first reading, appears to be about one thing but is actually about something quite different. This is the story of a man mourning not only the loss of friendship and potential romance with a woman – his ‘first’ no less - but the friendship and strange intimacy that maybe only a war can produce. ‘We were co-medics in the same platoon in Afghanistan’, he writes. ‘We fought side by side for a whole year. We saved lives together. We carried dead bodies away together. We were best friends. But this home wrecking whore ruined it. I had my part in it by deciding to have sex with her. He was like a brother to me. I think we are all at fault, we are all idiots I guess.’

This is their story.

‘I am a 21 year old guy. I am a Combat Medic in the Army. So there was this girl who was cute, (*Brittany, she is in the Army also) I sorta liked her and she sort of liked me. One day I was hanging out with her and she met my room-mate. He is 26, also in the Army. (We can call him Ted). Anyways I lost her to him I guess. I didn’t really care very much about it though. Everyone looks at me as a 'cool guy' sort of I guess, everyone assumes I already lost my virginity. I just play along because I don’t want to look weird. It’s odd, I have fought in a war and have multiple valors and combat badges but I am a virgin... Sounds pretty weird. I guess I am sort of scared of women too. God knows why, whatever.

So Ted has a girlfriend back at home but he cheats on her every chance he gets. So pretty much Brittany would come over and sleep in his room every night. The mattress on the bead squak (sic) a lot so I can tell when they are having sex. He had been having sex with her for about a month. One night me and Ted were going to go a platoon party at a bar, she wanted to come along so she did. While we were there, Ted found some other girl and went home with her. Brittany was crying and angry. I told her I would call us a cab back and she should sleep in his room and I will get her a cab back in the morning.

We started on our way back, got in the cab and she was clinging to me. I didn’t care, she was just being drunk and vulnerable. We get back and she is lying on my bed. I was lying next to her (because it’s my bed) she was lying next to me telling me about how betrayed she felt. I sort of talked to her but eventually fell asleep, I was pretty drunk. I woke up and she was gone, I didn’t really care. I got up to piss. She heard the toilet flush, and before I got back to the room she was in the bed again. I was a little confused. She told me I rolled over on top of her so she slept in his bed. I apologized and just got back in my bed, Brittany followed. If you know anything about the male body, we normally wake up erected. It’s the whole morning wood phenomenon. She started cuddling with me, and before I knew it she took her shirt off. I told her she wasn’t ready for me. She laughed. I told her to get ready. Her pants dissapeared. I had sex with her for about an hour, but I didn’t ejaculate. My room-mate was calling me, He snuk out of the girls house he went home with last night and needed a ride back. That’s when we decided to get breakfast and go get him.

The whole way to me riding over to get my roomie she talked about how we can’t ever talk about what happened, then she started talking about how much she hates Ted. We all got breakfast. She stayed over the whole day and again had sex with Ted that night. All the while she is married and has a kid. At first I had feelings for her, but about a week later she told one of her friends who spread it around. Apparently it is my fault. Ted moved out, to my knowledge she still stays with him every night. We walk by each other whenever we see each other, no eye contact, no greetings. She is in love with Ted, and Ted doesn’t like her very much. He uses her for sex and is open about it. Even though it doesn’t make her happy she is OK with it.

It’s been over a month now, my feelings for her have subsided. No texts or calls from her to hang out or to even say hi, no more facebook comments but we are still facebook friends. I am over her, but she still doesn’t give me eye contact or talk to me. After all this, I have deduced that she is a whore. My only regret, I didn’t wear a condom. I got checked and I am clean. I’m not emotional about this at all, she was last month’s news but I wish we could have at least been friends after it. That’s what happens when you lose your virginity to a whore though. That’s life.'

January 23, 2012

As if to re-inforce last week's post, here is a clip from Therese Shechter's upcoming film, 'How To Lose Your Virginity'. This makes me want to shake with laughter and weep tears of frustration at the same time. To quote Adios Barbie, 'hymens tell as accurate a story about a woman’s sexual history as the tip of a man’s penis tells about his. That is, no story at all'.

One does get the feeling that if the tables turned and men were the one's who were judged for the tips of their manhood, someone might have done something about this shambles by now. In fact, the history of the world could probably be re-written in its entirety if men were judged on sexual status in the same way that women were but that is not just another blog post, its another book. In the meantime, bravo to Sweden, who Therese writes about on a recent post on her blog. 'Cable have Shark Week', writes Therese. 'We have Hymen Week'. As part of Hymen Week, they are posting their favorite hymen related stories. I liked this one. In a nutshell, the Swedish Association for Sexuality Education has coined a new term with which to talk about this controversial - for it is - area of a woman's body: they call it the, ahem,’ vaginal corona'. The SASE goes on to tell us that 'surgery on the vaginal corona rarely solves any problems, firstly because outcomes vary and secondly, because it helps to maintain patriarchal structures and a prejudiced view of women and their sexuality'.

Yeah, you're probably thinking to yourself, I knew that. And I'm sure you do. But are our British leaders and government working to re-iterate this idea? Are the voices of authority in this country really trying to drive this potentially life-saving message home to the people who need to hear it? You wouldn’t think so if you asked Nadine Dorries, a British (female - the horror) MP who recently proposed giving compulsory abstinence education to all girls. This, in 2012.

It’s heartbreaking, not to mention hideously backward to ask young women to carry on such a sexist old tradition. Why is it only girls who need to be taught to ‘say no’? Legislating the idea that women are shy maidens who would do anything to avoid sexual contact with hormonal boys is really not the healthiest of concepts to teach young people. Girls have hormones too – and why should they be made to feel guilty about that. I also hear from enough young men on this blog to know that men also feel the pressure to ‘be men’, i.e. sometimes boys say yes…..when they mean 'no' because who wants to be thought of as a big nerd?

So please let’s not send the next generation back from whence we came. It’s been a heck of a long journey from the 1950’s to the present day. Thank god people have seen sense and not allowed Nadine Dorries to take us back there. At least for the moment.

December 11, 2011

One does have those moments when you look at your life and think, how the heck did this happen? I had one such moment this week at the ominously named ‘Literary Death Match’. Now who would have thought that lil’ ole me, the girl who barely scraped her O’levels would get to be a literary gladiator one day?

That said, whilst I might not have had the attention span it required to excel academically at school, I didn’t do so badly on the sports field and I remind myself of that each time (that’ll be a total of 4 times now) that I get an invitation to read or perform. Sport requires a ‘performance’ of sorts. If I focus for a moment; I can still feel the euphoria one feels as one stands at the edge of a gym mat, mind already living the moments ahead and then launching an attack that sees itself played out as a series of leaps, turns and tumbles that hopefully end in something vaguely death defying, dangerous and beautiful. Ok, I was only 13 at the time, it probably wasn’t that great but even now, I still remember feeling this: it’s always better in ‘performance’ than it is in practice.

There is something so seductive about the thrill of competition that one can often achieve something - in my case; height - that simply wasn’t possible when it was just me and my gym coach in the room. I remember leaping a full five inches higher when I was crapping myself in front of an audience at the borough gymnastics competition. Adrenalin brings out the best in us.

With the idea that somewhere inside me, that 13-year-old nutter might still exist, I stepped out onto the stage at Literary Death Match and read my favourite story from my book. I was slightly concerned about the fact that I’d have to use the C U Next Tuesday word several times but I was third up to read and the lovely Kat Brown tested (very beautifully it must be said) the water for me. It held firm and then one of the judges talked at length about ‘rimming’ and the last of my fears disappeared.

In any case, it’s hard to go wrong with a story like this one so, as an early wordy Xmas present, I’m going to repeat the un-abridged version. If everyone’s virginity loss experience were as good as this one, I’d be out of business. And if you want some grade A entertainment in the new year, get yourself along to Literary Death Match and cheer yourself up for the new year. Here we go....

Born in 1962, Charlie Thomas was the unfortunate victim of Thalidomide, a drug that was given to thousands of women in the 1960’s to relieve morning sickness. Tragically, and unbeknownst to them, it also caused dramatic birth defects. Charlie Thomas is a tall, handsome man who just happens to have arms that finish at his elbows. A smart, popular boy, we join his story at the age of sixteen, just as The Sex Pistols were ransacking the late 1970’s and just as Charlie’s mother and stepfather had moved from very ‘happening’ London to the very non-happening Welsh countryside.

‘It was the late seventies and my school consisted of Welsh people who were into Elvis and absolutely everyone wore flares. But there were also the children of the hippies that had moved to the country and formed all these hippy communes. One of them was a lesbian commune. Can you imagine how popular they were with the local villagers? They were lesbian, dope-smoking, patchouli smelling English people and they were all witches as far as the Welsh were concerned.

There I was, in the middle of all this and then she walked into the room. She was the daughter of one of these lesbian couplings and she was called Stella. Stella had huge bosoms, reeked of ‘teenage’ and sashayed down the hall in a way that stopped everybody in their tracks.

Our village was having a village hall disco one night. Imagine my surprise that day when Stella came up to me on the bus and said, ‘Are you going to be at the disco tonight because I’d like to dance with you?’ Pandemonium. You know, it was just a little bit too much for the other passengers. The weird English punk guy with the short arms getting propositioned by the witch girl with the big boobs.

The evening came and went and I walked her back to the end of the lane where her commune was and we had a bit of a kiss, but she had this really annoying all-in-one denim trouser suit on so any idea of getting hold of those breasts was just not happening because it was like a second skin.

Cut forward to about a month and she invited me back to hers for tea. By this time we were almost officially girlfriend and boyfriend and it was the weirdest house you’ve ever been in. There was a woman called Gloria who looked like a man and had a moustache. An actual moustache. Now I look back on it and I just think, yes, they were a bunch of lesbians in a hippy commune. It was the late seventies in Wales, what do you expect? But at the time, for this little straight boy, it seemed really weird.

Anyway, the mother sent us off to Stella’s room with our tea and Stella got her Jimi Hendrix record out. She was still in her school uniform and she lay down on her bed lolling the legs slightly open and I was sitting on the floor so you can imagine the view that I was experiencing. Then she just went, ‘Touch me’. What she actually meant was, you have got carte blanche to go straight to base three.

It was basically being offered to me on a plate. The sexiest bitch in the school, with the biggest tits, was showing me her vagina and saying, ‘Touch me’. I had never really got anywhere with anyone and there it was, all there, for me. I bottled it.

I wasn’t ready for it. I needed the base one and base two, you know? I hadn’t even touched her nipple. I wasn’t ready to insert my fingers into places that they didn’t know what to do with once they’d got there. So, in a rather desperate moment of attempted comedy, I put my finger on her knee, because technically that could be construed as ‘touching’ her, and thinking that I’d also answered with wit to mask my insufficiencies.

Cut forward again to a month later and there was a gang of about five or six of us that were the dope-smoking, punk-rock-liking, beer-drinking naughty people, who also had the parents who cared the least. We would hang around together, staying up till four and sleeping in the living room. On one of these nights, Stella and I were the only two left. It was three in the morning and there wasn’t enough bedding for two so we slept together.

One thing led to another and she lay down and opened her legs and I sort of got on top of her, I had no notion of foreplay or anything like that and I managed to put it in her with a little bit of assistance, and then I started putting it in and out and in and out again. And I remember thinking, is that it? Is this what I’ve been waiting for? Because this is shit! This is nothing! I didn’t come either, so I didn’t really understand the feeling that can go with it. I’d done it. I’d done the act but I didn’t have the feeling.

It wasn’t long after that that we were doing it every night and I’d kept it from her that I couldn’t come. We used to do it in the public toilets up the lane from the disco where everyone used to go. It was so popular that you could usually recognize the grunts of a familiar co-worker. Then one night she just sat back on the toilet bowl and went, ‘Where’s your fucking spunk?’ Or something like that. She was a game girl, Stella; I was a very lucky boy.

That weekend, I saw a film called ‘Candy’ and I was wanking while I was watching it. Suddenly I felt this really weird sensation, kind of like buzzing. My ears went a bit weird and I stood up and ran into my room, still with a hard cock, and carried on wanking, my legs felt wobbly for a second and I thought, oh my god, what’s going on, and then suddenly, yes! Finally, I’ve orgasmed! I’ve come. Produced sperm. Da da, da da! I’m a man! And that was my virginity.

I was desperate to see Stella again after that, obviously. I think I got one more in, and that was the one where I finally managed to have sex with her and come. A week later, Stella’s best friend Nancy asked her if she could borrow me because she wanted to lose her virginity. College was beckoning and she was buggered if she was going to go off to college still a virgin. Stella actually said to me, ‘Would you mind sleeping with my best friend?’ I was kind of like, ‘Err, sure, yes, I’ll do that’.

And I did. I actually enjoyed that a lot more because I almost thought I knew what I was doing by then. Happy days. Directly after that, when I went off to my A’ level college, I was quite confident and buoyed with the success of my double whammy in the summer holidays.

I met an older woman next who introduced me to LSD and the clitoris. She was thirty and I was seventeen. I called someone a cunt in the pub and the next thing I knew I was being punched in the face and I was on the floor with a woman leering over me with pink hair, Dr Martens and a boiler suit. She was pointing at me shouting, ‘Shut up! I like my cunt!’ and it was literally, like, ‘Wow!’ at first sight.

She was a communist and she was very angry. She looked at me and saw a man who’d been disabled by the state because basically, that’s what Thalidomide had done. She wanted to unlock my anger by fucking my brains out and giving me acid. She was partially successful. Sexually speaking I had a lot more of an idea about what I was doing by the end of that summer.

I had a lot of partners over the years because I was in rock and roll bands and I was shagging everything I could get my hands on. Some moves were not an option to me, because of the disability stuff; there were some areas that I literally could not reach. So I became damn good at oral sex to make up for that. Making the leap and learning how to go down on women was a huge step forward for me because then I could absolutely guarantee their pleasure.

Many years later, this is pathetic of me I know, I tried to sleep with Stella again but it didn’t work. Halfway through the date I realized that I didn’t actually fancy her any more and I was just trying to get closure on something that … didn’t need closure, so that was as far as it went.

I have been married to my partner for fourteen years now and I’m an old hippy. I believe that the physical plane is not as important as the spiritual one, and I’m also a pagan insofar as I’m anti Christian insofar as I believe we should have as much physical pleasure as is possible. And practice it as much as possible, because it will help us reach Nirvana. Rather than abstention from physical pleasure. No! I don’t agree with that. Absolute rubbish! Wank, fuck, do all of that as much as possible, that’s what I say. Because, come on, who of us here can quite honestly say that in times of stress, bringing yourself off in the bath or whatever, doesn’t relieve the damn stress, and make you feel better afterwards? How on earth can that be a bad thing?’

November 15, 2011

Being a topical blog, I probably should be flagging up the fact that Glee has just dealt with ‘the first time’ scenario but number one, I haven’t seen it yet and number two, my US counterpart Therese at ‘How to Lose Your Virginity’ will do a much better job of ‘appraising’ it than I…which she does, right here. I’d like to like Glee but frankly, I still haven’t got over the demise of Buffy.

I should probably also flag up the fact that on last night’s ‘Made in Chelsea’, Ollie Locke and his agent came up with the ground breaking idea to interview as many people as possible about the loss of virginity and turn it into a book. I am truly ahead of the zeitgeist. I guess I’ll let them find out in their own time that that ship has sailed!

Meantime, today’s story took me straight back to my own. A radio interviewer once commented that my story – which he read in my book - seemed a bit cold and business like. That it was a job to be done, a box to be ticked. Because it’s true, at 15 years old I was hideously aware (that’s a bit sad isn’t it), of the fact that most of my close friends had lost their virginity….and I hadn’t. Not that anyone else cared about this detail, but I did. So the interviewer wasn’t completely wrong. I was on a mission that needed to be accomplished and the cute French boy I met on a Spanish holiday was the man for the job.

On the last night of his trip, we snuck up into the hills and did the deed. It was just about as far away from how I had imagined the experience to be than you could possibly comprehend. It was bound to be great because he was so good looking. Right? Wrong. It was what it was. Two young teenagers fiddling around with very little knowledge of how it’s supposed to ‘work’. Ouch. We’d known each other for less than two weeks too which doesn’t really help. But the prescient part of the story, the bit that I really remember is the ‘girl’ part of the story. Despite the fact that I hadn’t felt connected to my experience, I did feel connected to him. And walking away a few hours later, not knowing whether or not I would see him again felt weird.

There is something in the make up of a woman that makes this so. It’s an ancient thing. It’s a cosmic trick if you like and if it were any different, the human race would not survive. It really is as simple as that. We need to feel an attachment to our mates so that we stick together. More so when we are young and fertile than at almost any other time of our lives because sex has the potential to produce life and if life is produced you can be damn sure that you won’t want to be alone.

So wondering, as today’s female story-teller does (despite the fact that she first thought her lover an ‘arrogant knob head’), ‘if it doesn’t mean something more to both of us’ is the most natural feeling in the world. I felt it when it happened to me, today’s story teller feels it and if my radio interviewer had been a woman, she would have felt it too. Its part and parcel of being female and we are built this way because we need to be, whether we like it or not. On some levels, it’s slightly irritating. I mean, wouldn’t it be so much simpler if we could all be like men? But at least it gives me the opportunity to completely contradict myself…..

I think men and women are more alike than ever before. I have come to this conclusion whilst sitting and listening to hundreds of men and women share the complexities of their intimate lives with me. But you don’t need to do this to reach the same conclusion, just look at the world and the way it has changed. Women have stamped all over male territory. We earn money; we buy our own houses and generally look after ourselves whilst damn well doing what we like these days. Meanwhile, the men’s ‘personal grooming’ market has grown out of all recognition. Men moisturize, wax and powder whilst taking paternity leave and occasionally chucking the day job in on a permanent basis and becoming stay at home dads. The times they are a changin’. So……where we will park the evolutionary will to attach ourselves to our mates, the piles of hormones and the traditional balance between the sexes in amongst this gender related confusion? Perhaps our physical make up might change to start mirroring what’s happening in society? Is this possible? Or more to the point, even desirable?

What will our relationships with each other look like in another 500 year’s time? I have absolutely no idea but whilst I am not sure I would like to stay there, I sure wish I could time travel and take a peek, I really do.

‘Hi, I'm Belinda*, I'm 15 from Manchester, England and I lost my virginity about 3 hours ago. I know this may seem like a weird thing to do, but the guy in question has left, so it's not like I've just left him in my bed to write an email about what's just happened.

This feels so strange telling the bare-honest truth to a total stranger, but we agreed, share no details, at all, to our friends.

Charlie and I aren't boyfriend and girlfriend. Up until a few months ago, I didn't even count him as a friend, because I thought he was far too arrogant and a general knob-head and while I still think that, now it just adds to his charm. He was the first and only boy I ever kissed, a month ago, and somehow it's progressed into something that I'm telling you now, all through the wonders of Facebook and it's instant messaging services.

It wasn't perfect, but I never expected it to be after my friend told me how disappointing her first time was, but it was perfect enough for me. I didn't come or anything, but it felt good, and he seemed to have a good time…..so good in fact, that tomorrow I need to go get the morning after pill, which should be fun, making up an excuse to my mum about where I'm going.

To put it in the crudest terms, because there's no other way to put it, I didn't expect giving a blow-job to be so easy. A lot easier than a hand job. It was sore at first but then we eased into it and I did enjoy it immensely….he's fun to be around, because we're both incredibly sarcastic, we understood each other, and it eased the pressure, and made it fun. We were better by far with me on top, and I didn't mind, because I could get the pressure and the angle I wanted from that position. I bled a bit, which he didn't expect, and I forgot to expect.

But, that's the technicalities.

I didn't understand 4 hours ago how much this connects two people. Even though this was only meant to be a 'friends-with-benefits' style arrangement, I'm sitting here still smelling like him, and thinking of the beautiful things he said to me, and wondering if it doesn't mean something more to both of us, but neither one wants to admit it.

That's my story. I still can't quite believe I actually have a story! Thanks a million and one for letting me unload my shit on you!

August 16, 2011

One of the things I loved most about writing my book was the opportunity to talk to men. It will come as no surprise to learn that women are fairly well versed when it comes to the art of self expression. From the moment we are born, and right into adulthood, crying, talking about our feelings and expressing emotions are all acceptable (and frankly enjoyable) pastimes. Not so if you are a man. Men might embrace their feminine sides more than their grandfathers or their father’s generation did, (just check out my other blog) but in the end, men are still wedded to the idea of ‘being a man’ and all that this entails. I could write a thesis on the architecture of ‘being a man’ having interviewed so many of them for my book, and may well do at some point but for the moment, have a read of this. This story goes to show just how much men hold in – and therefore why my job was so easy. What’s the betting that if you met ‘Stuart' in regular life, you would never in a million years guess his secret?

It also brings home the idea that losing virginity is about so much more than just having sex for the first time. It’s about acceptance as a human being and an attractive one at that because if no one wants to have sex with you, what does that tell us? Of course, with hindsight, we know that it tells us bugger all. Life just isn’t that straightforward or simple but try telling that to a boy, or even a man, who has had very little close intimate contact with the opposite sex.

Warning: this story may break your heart a little bit.

‘To Kate

I came across your article in my brother's girlfriend’s magazine. (Reader, he means last month’s issue of Glamour). I suppose I shouldn't have been reading it, but a consequence of this was that I came across your project. When I hear or read about sex, I feel frustrated, sad and depressed as I have only had negative sexual experiences in the 10 years since I SHOULD have lost my virginity at the age of 17. The sexualisation of women is a common issue raised in the news and media at the moment. One thing that is apparent to me is how people always discuss the effect this has on young women. Nobody ever considers what effect this has on young men. Here is my story on how I lost my virginity.

As a teenager I always enjoyed DJ’ing and listening to music. When I look back, I think music was my comfort zone, something I hid behind in order to avoid actual conversation with people. By the end of college at the age of 19, all of my friends had started to have sex and had girlfriends and I had not. I decided to try something completely different to my hobby of DJ’ing & music. I started a deck officer cadet-ship in the merchant navy. This lasted three years, I worked on oil rig supply ships in the stormy North Sea. I also sailed on a special underwater ops ship from Cape Town, across the Indian Ocean to my first transit of the Malacca strait (with me on Pirate watch!). This trip was concluded by a visit to the ‘Four Floors of Whores’ entertainment district, immediately on arrival at the Port of Singapore. This I didn't like. The idea of me, the western white man paying a less well off-in life Asian girl, who was only interested in me because I had money and the potential to get her out of her own country and life; quite a common thing to happen between western merchant seaman who can't get a western women. Not for me.

By the age of 22 and after much study in college, I finally passed my examination and gained my ‘Ticket’ the license required to work as a deck officer on board any merchant ship in the world, no matter what size or type. But I was still a virgin, still a boy doing a man's job.

I had kept in contact with the friends I had grown up with, so that summer, after passing my examination, I headed for Newquay where at least 15 of us partied hard for a week or so. Maybe I would meet a girl on this holiday, after all, all the friends around me (both males & female) including my younger brother had been sexually active for years. But it wasn't to be. The week ended with me feeling more frustrated than ever, particularly on that beach with all those half naked women walking about.

I went back to sea a few weeks later now wondering if I would ever have sex, yet now a 3rd officer, being left alone on the navigation bridge with sole responsibility of a multi-million pound vessel. Surely a girl would realize that I'm not a loser? I felt I had proven myself by getting my ticket - yet nobody apart from my parents seemed to realize what I had achieved.

The next year was spent working on a deep-water drilling rig out of Egypt, gaining promotion to second officer I navigated our vessel to Morocco, the Canary Islands, The Bahamas and in and around the Gulf of Mexico, working 6 weeks on 6 weeks off. The six weeks on was stressful, navigating across shipping lanes and dodging fishing vessels. My leave got even more frustrating, finding myself in the ‘negative cycle’ where ‘the more you think about sex, the less likely you are to have it’.

Finally it was my 24th birthday and I had had enough. Desperate and despairing with life, I visited a prostitute in Amsterdam. She was very nice and professional considering I had had a few beers. She was tall and she had her hair in blond pigtails and she was about 35. I only managed penetration for about 20 seconds or so. I didn't really think of sex that much during the weeks following my loss of virginity, however on return back on leave when I'm surrounded by couples and sexy women walking down the street I certainly do. I'm now 27 and have yet again been rejected by another woman I met online and went on a date with last week (the 4th rejection in as many dates). I have enough sea time to go for my Chief Officer license, but do not see myself being able to pass it; my mind is elsewhere, frustrated and depressed. I'm living in a world where women rule, they decide who they want to sleep with not men. I fear for my future, why me? When I do go back to college I will be living in a city for a year and will not be at sea. Hopefully this will increase the chance of me meeting someone.’

August 09, 2011

It feels strange writing this at the end of such an extraordinary day in London…and who knows what the night will bring. I’ve suggested taking to the streets of W9 and dancing to try and put the looters off their stride. If we can get through the night without anyone being seriously hurt, that would be a good thing. In the meantime, I’m contemplating this email from ‘Big Mick’. That’s not his real name but that’s the pseudonym he has used over the last few years to communicate with me.

When we started talking about the concept of LOVE on this blog recently, Big Mick wrote me this email. He doesn’t write much, but what he does write says so much. I hope you get the drift. What I really love about it is that his words seem resonant and relevant, even to people who are looting shops and stealing. At some point in the proceedings – and no matter what life has thrown at us – we have to come to the conclusion that there is a right and a wrong way to live our lives. Not just because it impacts on other people’s lives but because it’s better for our own peace of mind as well. I also love the fact that his Frenchness takes the edge off a story about adultery and makes it sound almost romantic. But mostly I just like the fact that after 32 years of marriage, he knows that it is his wife whom he loves the most.

‘Hi Kate!

when I loved myself enough ... I realised that, as much as I didn't need tobacco or alcohol nor even television to enjoy life in general, I didn't need another one than B., my 32 yr wife (we're both 58 now) to enjoy intimacy with a true other soul. I'd spent some years cheating, feeling anew, virgin sometimes - for the blessing of losing that - , but also innocent and all. The girl I name C. did not change, neither I, our love was neat and comforting once or twice a moment in the week. I resented at last the cheating and found out that I was cheating myself and also feared to be subject of more cheating from the rest of the world. Things happened, I felt bad and then I left her, it was quite hard for both.

Did I miss something, do I have something to prove now ? It should take more years to know. There is no one to fulfill every desire of love, every dream of relief, every fancy of pleasure. You do not have to fill all the gaps by yourself but no one will do that for you. Kate, I was glad to be able to tell this.

yours,

Big Mick

P.S. Is she 'the one' ? There is something sacred in a wedding and what I see is that we are not only made to be the other's company or delight. We are the souls in the same travel. We are the best and not complacent mirror. She helps me to find and cherish the man and the woman in me and unite them. why not. Children are big now, I'm a granda.’

July 26, 2011

Although one doesn’t like to give the Daily Mail too much credence, plus the essence of this article is that Mills and Boons might actually be killing our loves lives….I feel I might have to make the case for the Daily Mail today. On top of that, some of you may know that I’ve been writing a feature about people who have ‘not found love’ for another national newspaper and its raised some interesting questions about the way we approach our love lives in the 21st century.

We live in unusual times. Most of us look at the relationships that our grandparents and our parents had and we aspire to the same thing, never really taking into account the fact that our circumstances, our very existence on the planet earth, particularly as women is a different proposition these days. Older generations of women had to get married. What was the alternative? Women didn’t have careers. What were you going to do? Stay at home with your parents for the rest of your life. I think not.

I’m not saying there wasn’t romance; nothing says romance quite like the black and white movies of my mother’s generation. I’m just saying that people were motivated by different reasons to pair up and start families. It was harder to separate too. Until the early 1970s it was nigh on impossible to get divorced. Fast forward 30 odd years and people are still getting married and divorced just as quickly. Why? Because they’ve realized that sticking together is not easy and being ‘in love’ is not always enough. It’s a challenge. At which point I feel I must hold my hands up and say what do I know? I’m not married but I do have eyes – and my own experiences to draw on – and this is what I have observed from my parents marriage, my friends marriages and my own relationships over the years. I remember thinking only too clearly as I broke up with my boyfriend of 5 years in my twenties that love was not enough. Losing him was like cutting off my arm but we didn’t have the nuts and bolts, the dynamic, the guts and gumption, whatever it takes to see us through marriage, babies and a lifetime together and I knew it.

I think that finding real love is as much to do with finding someone who is prepared to put up with the shitty times, as well as the good ones and to be frank, not many of us are. Most of us are seeking an ideal that doesn’t exist. Committing to love is a conscious decision, not some random wand that gets waved by the magic love fairy. Mills and Boons, by peddling notions of ‘romance’ probably haven’t helped the cause. Ergo, on this occasion, I think the Daily Mail might be onto something.

What do you think? Do we have unrealistic ideas about ‘finding love’ – and keeping it - these days? Or is it possible to find ‘The One’ person that is the ‘perfect’ fit for us? More to the point, is finding love and the concept of partnership the be all and end all of everything? Can we live happy and fulfilled lives without it or at least enjoy our single time whilst we have it? Some people think so. I’d love to know what you think, mail me on katemonroe@yahoo.com

In the meantime, here is a man with a rather large love shaped dilemma. If you thought it was only women who worried about meeting The One, you would be wrong. Welcome Mr Perfection, a man who wants to save himself – and his virginity - for ‘the right’ woman. I point this out in my book but I’ll say it again. This sort of exchange is fraught with difficulties. How can we know for sure who ‘the right’ person is? Do the parameters of rightness not change as we get older? It’s not a fixed thing. But then this, to me, is symptomatic of a society that is obsessed with the idea of finding perfect love and the sooner we let go of that and find something that just works - and makes us feel good, the better.

‘I took an interest in your website and, assuming I didn't miss it, none of the tales seem even remotely similar to my seriously awkward predicament.

I've always felt strongly due to my philosophy that life is all about sharing experiences with the right person and as a result, I wanted to save my virginity for the person I believed to be 'The One'. Years passed through school and 6th form without even a flicker of interest in anyone. I even thought myself to be asexual.

And then along comes Ms X. For 6 months we dated and we genuinely thought we were the ultimate match. But there was a problem. I'd grown a paranoia that I would mess it up and hurt her. So, scared and confused, I broke it off. I had mixed thoughts of regretting it and wondering about whether I'd made the right decision but in the end, I came to the conclusion that as much as I loved her, she wasn't The One. Because if she was, what would I be worrying about?

Enter Ms Y. Instant best friends with matching characteristics, ideals, pasts and likes. Feels like we've known each other forever. It's now obvious to me that this surely is 'The One' and that there wasn't a chance in hell that I'd find anyone I'd rather spend my life with. Only there's a catch. When I tell her about my feelings, she makes it clear that she doesn't want a relationship with anyone full stop. She felt the two choices boiled down to lover ending in disaster or best friend forever. Of course I chose the latter and decide to simply bide my time and act when I'd gained her full trust. After all I'll have an amazing friend in the meantime.

Re-enter Ms X who tells me I'm still The One to her, and much as I'd like to say the same, I can't. I explain the situation, saying that I didn't want to take her for second best, as that's not fair. She says she just wants to be with me and make me happy, which in fairness I know she would, but with the nagging feeling hanging over my mind that I'd given it away to the wrong person. I'd regret that for sure. Also I can't help but think about the situation where Ms Y becomes available again. That would be messy.

Dilemma: save virginity for The One, who may in fact be unavailable forever, or give someone that truly loves me what she wants. I can't decide whether or not it's worth it to save it anymore.'

July 06, 2011

I did a radio interview recently, the first words of which were ‘Kate Monro, why you are such a big perv?’ I was slightly taken aback but I also howled with laughter because it's a fair question. Why do I go around asking people such impertinent questions about their sex lives? To be honest, I can barely believe my own cheek when I think back to the beginnings of this project. What on earth impelled me to request such a personal story?

The clue is in the last word of the previous paragraph. It was never virginity loss per se that got me going. It was merely the most effective vehicle I could find with which to tap people for brilliant stories. We all know how we lose virginity. An entire book about the nuts and bolts of ‘the moment’ (as it were) would be as dull as dishwater. It’s the bigger picture that’s interesting. I wanted to get people to paint these pictures. I needed an under the radar entry point at which to do that and this was it. There aren’t many other life experiences that could garner such a rich selection of reactions than the moment we have sex for the first time.

I chose today’s story for two reasons. 1: because it didn’t make the cut for my book. Not because there’s anything wrong with it but just because I couldn’t find the right place to put it. And 2: it’s a lovely example of the bigger picture. ‘The Moment’ takes up all of two lines and there are no gory details. But it is the inspiration for an epic tale that takes in religious spliff rolling parents, a questionable church pastor, a young black man alone at college in Cambridge for the first time and a very big dilemma.

Whilst I am here, here is a link to a nice interview I did last week for ‘Love Matters’, a Radio Netherlands produced sex education website for teens. Watch and learn England, watch and learn.

Daniel Collins. Born 1967. Lost virginity aged 20

Afro Caribbean parties are different to the parties that I ended up going to at university. On one level, it was really laid back but on another level, it was scary because dancing is part of the culture and it’s all about the moves. You are seriously done for if you can’t do the moves. Revoke your badge; do you know what I mean? It is not good. You’re supposed to be all but going for it in the middle of the dance floor, wining and doing it and I used to get so nervous; I would be running hot and cold sweats. I think that the one and only time that I did actually get into a dance with a girl, she may as well have been dancing with a broom because I was rigid with fear. I was a nerd. I was a comic book reading, cartoon drawing, nerd.

My parents came from Jamaica and my mum has become a regular church attendee since my dad died, but for much of my life, she was very Christian without actually going to church. This is important, because I grew up not being that interested in religion. I heard a lot of things that my mum said about God and her absolute belief in him. But at the same time my parents were having parties and stuff and dad would be in the kitchen rolling one up and mum would be out there, dancing crazy and entertaining. I rebelled backwards, I didn’t smoke pot until I was twenty-one, and it was my mum who taught me how to roll properly.

When I was eighteen, a mate of mine that I had grown up with came round one evening. I was hanging around outside my house as you do at that age. He just seemed to be different and I couldn’t get my finger down on what it was that was different. Finally, when I asked him, he told me about this Born-Again Christian group that he’d joined and it was more the way he was, rather than what he said that I latched onto. It was the sense of him being a bit surer of himself. He seemed to have a confidence that he didn’t have before, so I went along with him the next time and I found myself getting involved. At first I was just curious but it didn’t take long before I was enrolling in one of the classes.

Dr Whitsun was an American preacher who had split from the church and he had started to interpret the bible in a ‘new’ way. Basically it was a ‘reformation’ sort of situation. All these people had strayed off the path and he was going to put it right. He really bought all these ideas to life for me and there was a real sense of an active movement, something that I am sure the apostles would have felt, you know? The act of really doing something, and I found myself joining up.

One of the tenets of this faith was no sex before marriage and we talked a lot about the influences around us that are designed to lead you off the path. We were to follow the examples of the original Christians, which meant that we were free to see partners as much as we like, but we were to refrain from sex. I was at an age where there was a real pressure to be sexually active and apart from my friend at church, I had always hung around with friends who had gone and lived life and had girlfriends, lots of girlfriends. At the end of the day it wasn’t like it was on offer for me to turn down, but maybe I was dealing with it, or possibly the lack of it, by using religion. But I felt that I was doing the right thing even if my body sometimes didn’t agree with me.

So I go off to college, I move away from home for the first time and now things really start to get interesting because I don’t have my touchstone anymore. I can’t go to Fellowship and get a spiritual refill and I think I became really quite Taliban-like in those first six months of college. I think my way of dealing with it was to get really hardcore about it. I was at a little arts and technology college in Cambridgeshire; it wasn’t in any way involved with the university. But it’s not a very big town so you would end up in the same parties with people from the university. You’d end up in conversations with people who think they know stuff and I had some heated stand up debates.

I never felt more alone in my life.

I couldn’t find anyone else like me. Even if there were other Christians there, I wasn’t even on their side because my denomination was just as sceptical of all the other, nice, organized religions as it was of the secular world. It was a lonely place to be and I am not sure how I dealt with that first year. I remember once having this stand up conversation in the canteen with a guy about faith and trying to tell him about the ‘Born Again’ experience. I was trying to convince him that I would be all right but he wouldn’t, which at the end of the day is what you’re doing as a born again Christian.

I gradually began to wonder about things. Everyone else seemed to be having such a nice time going to the college bar and drinking and I would be sitting there drinking my coke. In fact I did that for about eight months, not a drink, not a nothing. Just chatting. And then temptation came along. There was a girl who had been in the same canteen at similar times. We had seen each other a few times and maybe passed each other going to the bank. Then we ended up at the same party and I don’t know what happened but we conversed and stuff and somehow at the end of the night we were kissing and heavy petting. Nothing more came of it but I realised at that point that I had crossed over some kind of Rubicon.

Now I wasn’t so sure of what I was saying and I suspect it was at this point that I really started to ratchet it down. Osama had come out of the cave so to speak. But something had changed and I couldn’t tell anyone about it because this girl was known as somebody who would throw herself at guys. That was the worst thing about it: the irony; I’d gone from being Mr Chaste to being Mr Chasing and chasing the easiest kind of tail. I was very confused. I met the person I ended up having the ‘first time’ with not long after that.

I had fallen asleep in the library. I was supposed to be studying, and I sort of jerked my head awake and there was this girl sitting a few tables away laughing at me. I smiled but I was nervous and I knew that I looked a bit of a twat. Then we met at a party later on and got to know each other a little better. Nothing happened for a little while but soon I got to really dig her. The funny thing was that I ended up jumping straight in at the deep end with her so to speak. I was twenty by this point and I had to get rid of this dilemma. I didn’t go out of my way to ‘kill it’, not consciously at least, but sub-consciously I think I just wanted to let life go on.

It wasn’t the very best experience in the world but my imagination wasn’t that advanced and I really had no idea what to expect. On some level you experiment but it’s not the same as when you’re actually with someone. I had read books and seen porno mags and it wasn’t like that. It was all I could expect it to be, let’s put it that way. She knew it was my first time, or she would have known by the way I was. I didn’t exactly have it choreographed. At aged twenty it was a bit embarrassing to be that awkward but she was very caring. I knew I wasn’t going to be like superman lover and I didn’t think the world was going to explode either.

The relationship didn’t last that long and it stopped in a very abrupt way. I wasn’t pleased with myself that I was the instigator and that it was also for the most stupid, selfish, childish reasons. Basically, I thought the nerd in me had finally been killed. It was the end of the year and after we came back from the Christmas holidays, I was just like, its New Year and I’m gonna get me some new ladies. And I cut it. Just like that. That was the weirdest, hardest thing because I didn’t even explain myself to her. But how could you explain that?

It was done. I had done it before marriage. It was difficult for me to come back from that situation without looking like a hypocrite, without actually confirming everything that people thought, which was, say one thing and do something else. I did not want to be that person, so it was not like a coming of age experience for me. It was more like a step forward and a step back.

I never found a way to marry the two. And in fact what happened next was the pastor in charge of my church became involved in a sex scandal, the whispering campaign began and senior members of the church took sides, ultimately causing a split. Once I saw the bickering, that was it. I was off.

I felt like I had stepped out of the world I had been in and stepped into the world that everyone else was living in. But I didn’t know whether it was better. That was the price, you know. I knew I could say sorry for what I had done and ask for forgiveness but I think I knew that I was going to do it again so it was a bit of a hypocritical exercise. In some ways, everything has been up in the air since then. It’s not like the end of uncertainty for me.

I am not religious now but I am trying to get some spirituality back into my life to get a bit of balance. It is the sense that there is a pattern and a flow to things that I enjoy. I certainly don’t want to be as rigid as I was. I do think there are more shades to life and besides; I hate the idea of giving authority to any one person. Why would I do that? They are just as messed up as I am. If they can’t say, ‘I am actually just as messed up as you are’ then don’t be a ‘God’ as far as I am concerned. I am more leaning towards stuff like Taoism and the whole Buddhist thing. I like the sense of finding your place in the universe.

June 24, 2011

‘I was surprised’, wrote Abigail to me after I published her story last week, ‘I thought the main thing about my story was the impotence problems and the fact that it being with an Englishman meant more to me than with an Aussie, not the dissapointment about not being fully satisfied’.

It’s true, I see aspects of other people’s stories that they might not and in today’s case, it is the language that men use with which to describe their sexual experiences. I simply cannot imagine a woman saying ‘she took it very deep and swallowed every drop’. Partly for obvious technical reasons i.e. it would be a physical impossibility but you know what I mean. As a generalization – of which I like to make many and then contradict myself shortly afterwards - women tend to talk from a more emotional perspective when they describe the nuts and bolts of their experiences. Men furnish us with facts, or, as a (male) interviewee once put it to me:

‘Blokes ask stupid stuff, like, how big were her tits? Did she suck you off? Raw facts, like football scores. You know, blow job – one, big tits - two.’

Having made this point, don’t think for a moment that I am dissing today’s story - or its brilliant teller. Far from it. This is a humungous story with, as you will see, even more humungous consequences. What makes it really fascinating is that its protagonist paints us a vivid cultural picture of life for two teenagers in 1968. I can almost picture these two, Anita Ekburg and Prince Valiant with his vulpine side burns, curled up in the back of a Chevy together...fumbling in the darkness away from the relative innocence of their childhood and into the complicated lightness of being a grown up. And all that comes with that. And believe me, it comes.

I won’t do what I did a few weeks ago and give the ending away before you’ve even got to it. I will put the footnote where it belongs: at the foot. Take it away Mr Wolf….

‘I had experienced reaching puberty around the age of 12 and it wasn't easy. My voice changed quite early and by the time I started Junior high, I sounded like the late John Carradine. The acne started 4 months later and the scars were deep. The body hair came in about that time and by my 13th birthday, I looked like a gorilla. And this was when I started having nocturnal emissions, and not knowing how to meet my physical and sexual needs. I was a gross looking kid

I started doing something about it in the early Summer of 1965.I lost about 25 lbs and started to work out with weights and doing aerobics religiously. I trimmed up fairly quickly and developed a bodybuilder's physique so that at least I'd feel strong and look healthier. I grew a Prince Valiant hairstyle and Hugh Jackman ‘Wolverine’ style sideburns. I also became very sarcastic and sardonic and went out of my way to challenge anybody who ever gave me a hard time. Maybe the phrase ‘quietly fierce' is appropriate.

One sultry August night in 1968 (I was 16), I was up at the municipal pool, swaggering around and showing off my stuff. I was going to be starting my junior year in High School. The former Captain of the Girl's Volley Ball Team started to put the moves on me. She had just graduated and was the June Wilkinson/Jayne Mansfield/Anita Ekberg of the Class of 1968. She started bumping into me in the shallow end of the pool and was constantly nudging and pressing into me. I asked her what she wanted and her reply was ‘I want to see what's inside of your pants’.

I decided to oblige her and we left the pool and drove up to the local ‘Lover's Lane.’ We stared to neck in the front seat of my car, with the additional caresses and touching as was felt to be good. We then got out of the front seat, undressed each other (down to the buff) and got into the back seat. We had a tongue wrestling contest and I proceeded to kiss and suck her nipples. She rolled me over onto my back and then started to ‘play the skin flute’. I was petting and stroking her head while she was doing it and when I shot my load, she took it very deep and swallowed every drop. While I was catching my breath, she said ‘I always wanted to have a boy loose his virginity in my mouth.’ We waited until I was ready for action again, and started once more to kiss (a la Francais) and nibble her nipples. Finally, I took her and I had my first act of intercourse. This was repeated once more. (3 ejaculations on 1 night, even for a horny adolescent with the hormones raging, is quite a lot).

We lay in each other's arms for a while, whispering the sweet nothings and enjoying the bliss. Then we dressed and I took her home. When I dropped her off, she leaned over, kissed me on the cheek and told me that I was a strong man, a mighty lover and she would always remember this night. I slept very soundly and felt very peaceful

I didn't see her again until 2 years later I was at the cinema and recognized her as did she me. We started to talk and I asked her where she had been, as I had wanted to get back together with her. She informed me that there had been an unexpected consequence of our love making.(Somebody showed up 9 months later.) I asked her as to why she didn't call me, as I would have married her. Her reply was that she didn't want me to get into any legal trouble. Ever since then I was always careful to make sure I had a Sheik whenever I went out on the prowl.’

Footnote: naturally, my first question was…why didn’t she tell you that she was pregnant? And what happened to your child?

‘In Florida, at that time, if a 16 year old (me) and an 18 year old (her) had sexual relations, it would have been considered child abuse. Consequently, she would have gone to prison. So she went to a home for unwed mothers 2 counties away and had our son.

I am a well-educated, professional man with a substantial income. I spent some time in the late 80s locating him and paid for his education. He's married and has 2 kids of his own (Both born in wedlock.) I visit them on a regular basis.’